The Game of Life
by letsimagine42
Summary: This summer Jamie Tyler wants to play baseball all day, every day with her friends. But when her friends bail, she's all by herself. She gets clocked on the head and is sent back to the '60s, she discovers there's more to life than baseball.
1. Chapter 1

The Game of Life

By letsimagine42

Disclaimer: I do not own the sandlot nor any of the subsequent movies. I only own what you do not recognize.

Summary: This summer all Jamie Tyler wants to do is enjoy baseball, the sunshine, her friends and the sandlot. But when she finds out all of her friends "grew out" of playing baseball with her at the sandlot, she's all by herself. But when she gets clocked on the head and suddenly transported back to the boogey-down '60's, something bad and good all at the same time is bound to happen.

Author's note: Of course it's a clichéd story idea. I just wanted to fool around with it a little, tweak it, experiment with it. I'm going to try and make this a fairly good "cliché" story and turn all those cliché moments upside down. I enjoy taking stories and turning them upside down; it's what I do best. So, with that said, please enjoy.

"Baseball is a game where a curve is an optical illusion, a screwball could be a pitch or a person, stealing is legal and you can spit anywhere you like except in the umpire's eye or the ball." --Jim Murray

**Last Day of Class, Valley Middle School, June 28, 2007**

There was five minutes and eighteen seconds left until the final bell. I sat at my desk, tapping my pencil idly against the desk. The clock was running slow, and so was the bell system in the school. The teachers liked to fool would with us kids, making the summer much farther away than it really should be.

My friend Gabby threw a ball of paper at me, missing my head (her likely target) and hitting the desktop instead. I picked it up and read it: _Four minutes to summer!_ I looked back at her and smiled, and then turned back to the paper and scribbled my answer, which was some dumb question that I can't remember even now. I threw it back.

"Students," crowed my teacher, Mrs. Alexander. She stood up, fixing her perm and smoothing out her green corduroy blazer. She was old, like fifty, but she had the energy of a twenty one year old and loved trying to get us pumped up. "Everyone here at Valley Middle School hope you enjoy your summer holidays and that you spend your time in a useful manner. As the seventh graders you are, next year you shall be…"

"Come on, come on," I whispered, staring hard at the clock. It was moving slower than slow. I started tapping my pencil again and I looked back at Ryan and Vanessa, who were sitting together in the back of the classroom. I looked back at the clock.

"Remember to do your summer assignments and do them with your immense intelligence…"

Two minutes! Two minutes to summer!

"…All papers are due here on the first day of school, the fifteenth of September…"

One and a half minutes! I shifted in my seat, poised for the paper-throwing we had planned the day before. When the bell rang, we would all throw whatever papers we had on our desks into the air.

"Ready?" whispered Anthony, my other best friend.

"Three…" mumbled Jess, who was next to me.

"Two…" called Vanessa from the back.

"One!" I shouted.

"Yeah!" We threw our papers into the air and then scrambled for our summer homework, which kind of ruined the effect. Either way, we still did what we wanted to do, and there was still paper on the floor.

I raced to the door, beat only by Matt. I yanked open the door and we all fell into the hallway into the wave of students.

Let me introduce myself. I'm Jamie Tyler. I have nine friends, best friends in fact. We've been friends since fourth grade, some of us older or younger than each other. There was Vanessa, Jess, Gabby, Anthony, Matt, Chris, Ryan and Joe. Together we made ten, and we had a love (or when it came to me, a passion and a craving) for baseball.

One time in fifth grade, Ryan, Gabby, Vanessa and I had rode our bikes down to the east side of town, the side without the developments and the apartment buildings, like our side of town. We rode down the sixties style neighborhood, with a drugstore, lots of mom and pop stores, and a sandlot. We officially claimed the sandlot in fifth grade for ourselves and fixed the place up. After that, we've played baseball there every summer, all day, every day, every hour.

We ran outside, racing each other to our bikes. I came in third, mostly because Anthony and Matt were the two fastest. I shoved Vanessa out of the way in fun and I leaped over the fence, landing neatly on the other side, where my bike was chained.

"Who's ready for summer?" shouted Ryan, punching the air in his excitement. He was blond and freckled, and he was like an Energizer Bunny, he just kept going and going and going. He was a motor mouth, too. He loved to talk.

"I sure am," said Gabby, leaning against the bike rack while unlocking the Master Lock on her chain. "No more tests!"

Vanessa grinned and agreed. "Yeah, no more being harped on about the whole 'get a good score or die' thing." She unlocked her bike and wheeled it out.

The rest of us did the same, getting on our bikes and wheeling towards the sandlot, or at least I thought we were. We shouted goodbye to various friends and shouted taunts at the oh-so-popular blond ponytail group that talked with high pitched squeals and giggles punctuating every sentence.

We rode down the Hill, which was a large hill in the center of our neighborhood, in one tightly knit group. I was up near the front, with Gabby and Vanessa and Jess flanking me on either side.

"Ready for a summer of baseball?" I said when we turned right, towards the sandlot's neighborhood. "I so psyched about this. What if the Little League comes over and challenges us?"

"Jamie," said Gabby, shaking her head a little. "You live in a TV show. The Little League does not give a damn about us."

"Yeah, James," said Joe. 'James' was his nickname for me. "The Little League doesn't even know we exist."

"I know that," I said. "But what if they actually _do_? That would be awesome!" I swerved, avoiding a wayward trash can cover. "Anyway, who's ready for some baseball?"

I thought I saw Ryan and Vanessa exchange glances. I tossed it off my shoulder like nothing, because they always looked at each other like that. I always thought that they would eventually get together and date, but they would never admit that to each other. I mean, we were only twelve and some of us thirteen, and did it matter very much?

The sandlot's fence came up on our left and we turned in. We pulled into the left field warning track, tossing down our bikes and then heading as a group to the pitcher's mound, where we would officially pick our positions for the summer.

"Okay," I said once we got there. "Who's got first pick?"

"I want to say something first," said Matt slowly, always being the bearer of bad news. "We…we, Jamie, think that since it's the summer of eighth grade, that -- that we should _not_ play baseball every single day."

I looked at him, confused.

"What Matt's saying is," said Anthony, taking over, "that we want to get out more. You know, like go to parties and hang out at the Igloo and talk to our friends…"

"But aren't we friends?" I asked him, looking around at the group. "And besides, who needs those joints, anyway? We have the sandlot!" I honestly wanted them to realize that this was important to me. And I wanted them the realize that without the sandlot this summer, I was going to be a little insane. This year had been really stressful and I didn't want to be concerned with the "In" crowd just because we were going to the eighth grade. I know I sound dramatic, but I really, really, really want to stay here this summer.

"Look, James," said Joey, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking guiltily down at the ground. "We don't want to do this anymore."

"Gabby," I said, turning to her and gesturing at her with a baseball in my hand. I was looking for support and she knew it. "You want to play baseball this summer, don't you?"

She shrugged and said, "Maybe on the weekends. Or sometimes during the week."

Oh, snap. She wanted to do the whole Igloo thing, too. This is so out of line right now. I looked at all of them, confused. It was Jessie who stepped up.

"Jamie," she said, sounding brave and scared at the same time, like she didn't know who to side with, "we're not kids anymore. We don't _want_ to be kids anymore. We want to get out there."

I sighed and shook my head. "Guys," I said, searching for the right words. "This is baseball. _Baseball._ We've been playing it every summer, all day, every day. We've got sweaty, dirty, whatever. But you want to quit?"

"_Yes!"_ they all said together.

"Fine, fine." I squeezed the ball in my hand as hard as I could to fight back the anger. "One more game, though. Just…one more game."

They agreed, though a little more reluctantly than I would've expected. We drew positions, me getting catcher this time. I got the equipment and started strapping it on. I hooked the last strap and stood up, the scarred plastic creaking in protest from a month of nonuse. I grabbed the dusty glove and walked to home plate, getting ready to warm up Matt, the pitcher. I was being stupid and I wasn't wearing a helmet, mostly because I was just warming someone up. Everyone, including my baseball guru Dad, advised against warming a pitcher up without a helmet.

"Jamie!" The call made me turn my head, and then I felt a hard thing whack into the side of my head. I fell back, landing in the hot dust.

Ow, ow, ow, ow, _ow. _There was burning on the side of my head and now it was throbbing. I breathed in and heard voices, probably my friends standing around me like dummies, wondering when I was going to wake up. I brought a hand up to my forehead, and it felt lightweight, like it weighed nothing. I touched my temple gingerly and winced when I pressed against an egg-shaped bump.

"Jamie, darling," said a voice. "Are you all right? Speak to me, pumpkin."

Wait a minute. My friends would _never_ call me _darling_ or _pumpkin_. My parents didn't even call me those things, because my father was strongly against any pet names ever since that study conducted by the Eagle about "pet names harming mental state."

"Jamie?" Another voice, different this time.

I opened my eyes and at first everything was blurry. Suddenly things came into focus, and I was staring straight back at Mrs. Peterson and my English teacher, Mr. Maxwell! Getting over my shock just enough to say something, I said, "What…happened?"

"Darling," said Mr. Maxwell, "you were putting your mother's swan vase on the shelf when you slipped and it hit your head."

I sat up, looking around. This was definitely not the sandlot and not my house. "Yeah. Where is my mom?"

"Dear, I'm right here," said Mrs. Peterson, a flicker of concern flashing across her face. "You don't recognize me?"

I scooted back a little and I suddenly noticed I was wearing a flowered sundress! Oh, no they did not. They didn't change my clothes or something, right? This wasn't a prank cooked up by Anthony and Ryan? "I recognize you, Mrs. Peterson," I said.

She looked confused for a second. "Honey, I haven't been a Peterson since I was married to your father," she said, placing her hand on my hand.

Mrs. Peterson and Mr. Maxwell are married?!

"Jamie," said Mr. Maxwell. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Jamie Tyler," I said, taking my hand away from Mrs. Peterson's.

Concern flashed across his face, too. "Your name is Jamie Marie Maxwell," he said. He put a hand on my forehead and felt for fever. "No fever…"

"What year is it?" asked Mrs. Peterson, looking hopefully at me like I actually knew the answer. The last time I checked, her hairdo had been out of style for forty years and I know for a fact that girls do not wear flowered sundresses anymore.

"Uh…" I stalled.

"Honey, it's 1964."


	2. The 90 Feet Between First and Home

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Sandlot_ nor any of the subsequent movies. I only own what you do not recognize.

Chapter Summary: Welcome to the '60s, chickadee. Jamie can't get over the fact that she's back in the sixties and that her two teachers are her parents! After sitting around the house for a while on her parents' orders, she decides to explore…and meets the gang!

A/N: So I guess I'm typing this story for nothing. Thanks goes out to cindy710329 for being the first reviewer! I dedicate this chapter to her.

---START---

"The ninety feet between home plate and first base may be the closest man has ever come to perfection." --Red Smith

**Strange House, Unknown Time, Unknown Date, 1964**

"What?" I said, getting over a _small_ piece of my large initial shock. Wouldn't you be freaked out if you were suddenly sitting on the couch in somebody else's living room, while those somebody else-s are your teachers? It doesn't happen every day and for some strange unimaginable, unthinkable, unintelligible reason, it _happened._

"You're in 1964," said Mrs. Peterson again, a little more slowly than the first time. You know, like when you're trying to explain something to an extremely bratty first grader: It's. Nineteen. Sixty. Four. Okay? "Are you sure you're alright? You're not feeling dizzy or anything?"

At that moment I was totally feeling dizzy. The side of my head hurt like the devil and the room was spinning like the Tilt O' Whirl at that stupid county fair they have every summer back in the two thousands. I never went on it because when I was six, I threw up my intestines on the girl in front of me (oops).

"You look a little green around the gills, pumpkin," said Mr. Maxwell, looking at me with concerned eyes. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Um…" I closed my eyes for a second and a half, hoping that maybe everything would go back to normal and I would be looking up at all of my friends. I opened my eyes. Nope, no change, and Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell were both staring back at me, even more concerned.

"I'm going to go get something for your head, darling," said Mrs. Peterson - err, Maxwell, and she got up and went into the kitchen.

I shifted a little and put my hand on my forehead. Ugh, my head felt like it weighed a ton! I scowled. I cannot believe this was happening. It just wasn't possible. No one could time travel! And besides, I just got hit on the head. _You can't time travel when you get hit on the head!_

Or can you?

Mrs. Peterson - uh, Mrs. Maxwell - came back inside with a bunch of ice wrapped in a washcloth. She handed it to me and sat down in the chair she had sat in before. She smiled gently at me and put her hand on my hand. "I want you rest and put that on your head. If you need anything, just call."

They both left me on the couch and I pressed the washcloth to my head. I closed my eyes and slowly fell asleep.

And when I woke up, nothing was different except it was slightly darker outside and the ice had turned into water, soaking my hair and my face. I scowled and sat up, my damp hair falling in front of my face. I put the washcloth on the coffee table, wondering if I should just bring it into the kitchen instead -- but both my teachers (apparently my mother and father) were in there, and I didn't want to disturb their discussion.

I got up and smoothed out my skirt (God it's uncomfortable in these things -- how do girls play baseball?) and wiped my forehead. Okay. I took a deep breath and ventured further into the house, beyond the living room.

The hallway was plain but with pictures on the walls. They were pictures of me and my "family" together, the kinds of pictures you get a professional to do and you pose for them. The floor was hardwood and slick, so I slipped and slid in my stocking feet. (Funny how it's stocking feet and not _sock _feet -- is that what they call it in the sixties?) I came to a doorway and realized that this would be my room.

It was pink, for one thing, and I despised the color pink. There was a bed with white, crisp sheets and a crocheted blanket at the foot of it. The window, which was on the opposite side of the room, was thrown open, the white lace curtains billowing slightly in the breeze. There was a bureau with framed photographs of three girls that I vaguely recognized. Next to that picture was a group picture of eight kids, with me in the middle. There was mirror behind the pictures, attached to the bureau. It was a small and modest room, but it rocked. (Except for the pink.)

There was a stack of boxes in one corner. They were probably filled with clothes that this Jamie Maxwell (aka me) hadn't unpacked yet. The bottom box, though, was scribbled on with black pencil.

I walked towards it, softly closing the door behind me. I stepped over a wayward box and then stepped towards the bottom box, kneeling down so I could see what was scribbled on it. In what was in my handwriting, though more disciplined than my regular loopy, crazy script, read the words: _Baseball Stuff._

I straightened up immediately and started hauling the boxes off the bottom one. I lifted the last box, carefully setting it down gently so that it didn't make a lot of noise, and just in case it was glass or something. Finally, I was at the bottom box. I knelt down again and opened it, the musty smell of cardboard that had been in the rain hitting me full force.

What was inside the box made me feel right at home. It didn't matter if I was in some strange house in a strange time and in a sundress. I was finally where I belonged. Inside the box were a pile of white t-shirts and cotton shirts to go over it. Underneath those were worn, beat-up blue jeans that looked like they had been through five summers and back. Shoved in the corner of the box were good old fashioned, cruddy Chuck Taylor All-Stars, with dirty laces and a smudged heel and worn out canvas. Tucked into the other corner was a Yankees baseball cap, my favorite team in the entire world. Underneath all the clothes and the sneakers was the best thing out of all this. It was my glove, almost the same exact model I had back home (the two thousands) and it was faded and had a great pocket.

"Jamie?"

I shoved the glove back into the box and hurriedly closed the top. I stood up and put my hands behind my back -- no! In the front, so it won't look so suspicious! I folded my hands in front of me and plastered a "here I am!" smile on my face.

Mrs. Maxwell opened the door and peered in, her red lipstick faded a little and her hairdo frizzed from the Valley's heat and humidity. She smiled at me in that motherly way of hers and came in, closing the door behind her. "So," she said. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better, thank you." I watched her go and sit down on my bed, making it sink in the middle a little bit.

"How do you like the Valley?" she asked. She probably told me about the Valley before I hit my head on the swan vase or whatever, she had given up trying to quiz me about what's happening around me. "I know it's hard in the summer to make friends without going to school first, but you're great at making friends."

I smiled a little. "Yeah. I like the Valley. I feel right at home." It was true, too. I lived in the Valley (in the two thousands) and my friends (who've betrayed me and wanted to go to the dumb _Igloo_ instead of hanging out with me at the sandlot) lived there, too.

"That's wonderful, honey," she said, brightening. "Dinner will be ready in about an hour. Why don't you take a look down the street, maybe meet some of the next door neighbors if they're outside?" She got up and put her hand on my face, gingerly, like a mother should. She smiled one last time and then left the room.

I turned back to the box with the glove and yanked open the flaps. I took out my glove and stood up, putting the flaps back down and then hurrying out of the room, the glove safely tucked underneath my arm.

The storm door banged shut behind me and I moved out into the humid Valley summer air. The grass was a bright, emerald green and the sky was slowly darkening to a deep, rosy pink. The streetlamps weren't on just yet, and the sun was still out and shining, but it was getting close to five o'clock. I stepped onto the bleach white curb and curled my toes around the edge, looking down the street at the cars parked. The black asphalt contrasted greatly with the white sidewalk.

I stayed there for a few minutes, just standing there with my glove underneath my arm and my eyes trained on the street. My toes began to ache from being curled around the curb that long, but I ignored it. It was like I was waiting for something, but I didn't know what and I didn't have the sense of waiting for something.

Then there was a sound. A yell, a whoop, a cry of joy. A grin broke on my face as I saw nine boys round the corner, each all varying sizes and ages. The tallest one appeared to be the leader, walking in the middle of them laughing and talking. He was tall and lanky, with long legs and long arms -- a runner.

"Hey, Benny man," said one of them, "some new chick moved in next door."

"Really, Yeah-Yeah?" asked the leader, whose name was Benny, obviously. "Or are you just trying to embarrass Smalls again?"

Laughter rippled through the group as they came closer. The kid named Yeah-Yeah scowled and hit Benny with his glove in more of a playful manner than anything, and more laughter came from them.

"So, what's she look like?" asked someone eagerly. "Better looking than Wendy Peffercorn?"

"You wish, Squints," said Yeah-Yeah. "She's okay-looking, I guess."

"That's because you can't tell the difference between a rock and a girl," said a chubby, red-haired and freckled kid. He brandished his catcher's glove at Yeah-Yeah and smiled evilly. "What's her name?"

By this time they were close to me, coming almost in front. I grinned at them and said, "My name's Jamie Ty - err, Maxwell. Jamie Maxwell."

They all stopped, kind of surprised that I was standing _right there_ and I was listening to their conversation. They looked me up and down and apparently figured me good enough to talk to, because Yeah-Yeah spoke first.

"Oh. I'm Alan. Call me Yeah-Yeah." He fumbled with his glove but didn't break eye contact. He was brave that way, I guess.

"I'm Scotty Smalls." This kid had a comb over and looked a little more shy than the oh-so-bold Yeah-Yeah. He blushed a little when I grinned at him. "They just call me Smalls."

"I'm Ham," said the red head proudly, puffing out his chest. He looked extremely proud of himself, and his overconfidence made his freckles stand out a little more. He had a face that a grandmother would love to pinch and smother with lipstick and eyes that probably changed colors. "It's _really_ nice to meet you."

"And while I'm pretending not to be slightly grossed out," I said, trying to hold back a baby barf. Okay, so maybe that was a little harsh, but this kid was just to funny. He was already trying to make the move on the new girl (or at least I think he was) and I've only known him for three seconds. "Who are the rest of you guys?"

"Oh. Oh," said Benny, who suddenly came to life. Before he had this vacant look on his face, and now color was flushing his cheeks because he'd just realized that he'd been staring at the glove tucked under my arm, which no one else had noticed yet. "I'm Benny."

"Hi, Benny," I said.

"This is Bertram Grover Weeks," he said, pointing to the other tall kid who was chewing at least five sticks of bubble gum. "And that's Kenny DeNunez." He pointed to a dark-skinned kid with a cool smile. "They're Timmy and Tommy Timmons." Two kids spit on the curb, carefully avoiding me.

"Nice to meet you all." I smiled at them again (what is with me and all this smiling?) I took the glove from underneath my arm and put it behind my back, Benny following my every move and eyeing me like "why're you hiding it?"

"Where'd you come from?" asked Smalls, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen across us like a cloak. He was honestly trying to ease the tension between me and Benny, like he had sensed the whole why-hide-the-truth thing. I think.

"New York," I said. It was a lie, but it was something.

"Did you go to Yankees games?" asked Ham eagerly, getting over his thing with the move-on-the-new-girl. "Did you see DiMaggio?"

"Oh yeah," I said, nodding earnestly. I did like DiMaggio and the Mick and all those people. But I don't think Mickey Mantle came in 1964...or did he? I started playing with the cords of my glove behind my back, trying to think.

"What time tomorrow, Benny?" blurted the kid named Tommy. Or Timmy. I couldn't tell the difference between the two. Was Timmy the older one?

"Nine o'clock," he said. "Meet behind the drugstore."

"Yeah-yeah," said Yeah-Yeah, turned towards his house, which was next to mine. "My mom's gonna kill me if I ain't in before the streetlamps." By this he meant that he was supposed to be inside his house before the streetlamps came on. It was the same thing with my friends and I back in the two thousands, only you had to be back waaaaaaay before dark, like four.

"Bye guys!" called Ham over his shoulder. He was already jogging towards his house…which was across the street and two houses down from mine.

"See ya," said Timmy and his brother repeated, "See ya."

Benny waved them off and now it was only me, him, Smalls, Bertram, Squints and DeNunez.

Squints hadn't said anything so far. He was kind of short, with freckles, big teeth and big, black-rimmed glasses that he kept pushing up his nose with one finger. He was frowning at Benny and at the rest of them for some reason. Maybe it was that joke about not being able to tell a rock from a girl? And he was the one who wanted to know if I was hotter than Miss Wendy Peffercorn, whoever that was. Finally, he turned on his heel and started running towards his house, which was five houses down from mine.

"He hates it when we joke about Wendy," said DeNunez, seeing the expression on my face. "See ya later, man," he said to Benny, and he turned and hurried down the road.

Bertram spit on the curb and nodded to me and said "Peace out, man," to Benny. It was like the same way we said it to our friends (2000s, people) but it was more hippie-like, with the forwards peace sign, too. Maybe he was into the sixties.

Now it was just me, Smalls and Benny. Smalls was moving around uncomfortably, like he knew he was supposed to go home, but Benny was still out. This affirmed my hypothesis (my science teacher would faint if she heard me use that word) that Benny was the leader and everyone looked up to him.

"Uh, Benny…" Smalls looked at Benny hopefully, like he was going to be dismissed.

Benny turned and grinned at Smalls, who was at least a head shorter than him. "Go ahead, Smalls. See you tomorrow morning."

"Yeah!" said Smalls with a bright smile. "Tomorrow morning, right! Bye!"

I waved at him as he ran down the street. A breeze made my stupid sun dress billow to the right, making this look like a dumb shipwreck movie, only on asphalt. Okay, stupid description, but I was feeling completely dumb and stupid in this _dress_!

"So why'd you hide the glove?" asked Benny, breaking the silence. He sat down on the curb and I sat down next to him, at least six inches apart. Just so it wasn't awkward, okay, I know he doesn't have cooties!

I shrugged. "Where I came from, New York, girls didn't play baseball. I got used to hiding it because they used to stare at me walking down the street." I remember to close my legs because I was wearing skirt. Ugh, I hate these things! "And I don't normally wear skirts." Did that just come out of my mouth?

He smiled and looked at the houses across the street. This was the time I actually got to get a good look at him. When he was standing he was tall, we all know that. Underneath his L.A. Dodgers cap there was probably black hair, maybe curly. He had dark eyes, long fingers and long legs for running. I guessed he liked to sit with his knees curled up to his chest, because that was the way he was sitting now, with his chin on his knees and his arms around his shins.

"How old are you?" he asked, turning to me.

"Thirteen," I said. "I turn fourteen in September." I started playing with my glove again, which had come out of hiding and was now sitting in my lap. I opened it and looked at the worn leather and breathed in the smell of glove polisher. Ah.

"I'm fourteen already," he said. But he didn't say like that Ham kid would say it, he said it like he regretted it. "Are you going into eighth grade?"

I nodded. The sky was turning a deep indigo now and I supposed that dinner was almost ready in my house.

I heard the storm door open behind me and Mrs. Maxwell stuck her head outside. "Jamie!" she called, waving a dishtowel at me as if I were already down the street. "Come inside, dinner's ready!"

"I gotta go," I said, standing up. I grinned at him and then lowered my head. "See ya," I said, heading up the paved walk to my house.

"Yeah," he said, nodding, "I'll see you later."

The interior of the house was dim and dark and comfortable, better than the stifling outdoors. I stepped into the foyer and smelled the enticing scent of dinner, something with meat. Pork chops? I chewed on my bottom lip and saw Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell already seated at the kitchen table (the dining room was a formal one, apparently) and waiting for me.

"Go wash up," said Mrs. Maxwell, gesturing to the hallway.

I hadn't explored the house long enough to find a bathroom, so I went down the hallway and opened every single door that came my way. One led to my bedroom, another led to a broom closet. The last door led to the bathroom.

I washed my hands and then headed back to the kitchen, making sure I didn't get lost along the way. It wasn't a very big house, but I could get lost anywhere with a lot of doors and hallways put together.

I sat down in the chair and then Mr. Maxwell held out his hands to us. Oh, great, Grace.

"Thank you Father for this bounty we see before us…"

The rest of the night was uneventful except that I discovered the fact that Mrs. Maxwell was an excellent cook. She made her own bread and her own mashed potatoes, which was more than my own mother could say because she made mashed potatoes from a box. The pork chops (I was right) were delicious and I had about two of them before Mrs. Maxwell said that I might get sick from shoveling all that food down into my stomach.

I lay in my bed that night thinking of the guys I met that afternoon. They all seemed like baseball players (plus they were carrying baseball mitts). I figured that they played on the sandlot, because they weren't wearing those tacky blue and red uniforms that the Little League wore. (In my time, anyway.)

And the funny thing is, I fell asleep thinking of Benny.

--END--

**Author's Note**: There you have it, chapter two. Please read, review and enjoy. Constructive criticism is definitely welcome. Opinions, comments, any ideas. Everything is welcome except flames: respect your fellow authors. Thank you.


	3. Progress Involves Risk

Disclaimer: I do not own the _Sandlot_ or any of the subsequent movies. I do own whatever you do not recognize.

Summary: It's the morning of the first time Jamie gets to play ball in this surreal atmosphere. She becomes closer with her new friends and her competitive edge comes out when accepting a bet from a certain red headed, freckle faced kid who has a love for catching.

A/N: Thanks goes out to the reviewers! Thanks! P.S. Sorry for the wait, everyone.

--START--

"Progress always involves risk. You can't steal second base and keep your foot on first." --Frederick B. Wilcox

**July 1****st****, 8:27 A.M.**

When I woke up the next morning, I realized two things: 1) I was still in the 1960s and 2) the sun in the Valley hasn't changed at all; it was still the hottest, most annoying thing you would ever experience in a Valley summer, more annoying than the fact that I was still stuck here in the 1960s. And the other thing that I realized was that I was going to go play baseball today. At least that was the brighter side of this nightmare.

I threw the covers back and yawed, rubbed my eyes and stood up, stretching my hands towards the ceiling and arching my back. I slept well that night, because I guess time traveling takes a lot out of you. I looked at myself in the mirror and winced. My ponytail ended up on the other side of my head and my cheeks were pale from being asleep. Does being asleep suck all the niceness out of you?

I walked in the hallway and checked the time on the kitchen clock. Eight twenty-seven! Suddenly awake, I leaped for my room and grabbed the clothes I'd laid out before I went to bed. I dived into the bathroom, brushed my teeth with some really bad tasting toothpaste (apparently they didn't have mint back then,) and got changed in lightning speed. I brushed my hair with my fingers and fixed it so that it was in the center of my head and not to the side and put my baseball cap over it. I bent down and tied my Converses up, ran to my room again and grabbed my glove, and then ran out of the house with a million minutes of baseball ahead of me.

Where did Benny say to meet again? I walked down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace now because I was finally ready. My glove was tucked underneath my arm again and my feet followed the sidewalk automatically because I knew where I was going. In the 2000s, the sidewalk here was slightly cracked down the side because of an earthquake. Now it was smooth and looked like it was freshly paved.

The air was already thick with humidity and I was already sweating. I wiped my forehead and regretted wearing a shirt over my t-shirt. I yawned again and brightened a little when the town and Main Street came into view.

Main Street's stores looked brand new. The awnings were bright and colorful, the sidewalks were clean, the cars rumbled down the street without their drivers hanging out of the windows cursing at each other. People smiled and said hello to one another, the ladies' skirts and dresses not above their knees and not like a second skin. Men had their shirts tucked in and their pants weren't pooling around their ankles. Kids ran around, laughing instead of threatening one another. Vincent's Drugstore was full of people buying things for Fourth of July, which was in three days, and there were kids buying fire crackers and party poppers and things like that. Bazooka gum was popular: kids all over were chewing it.

I stood there in awe. There were so many things different here in the sixties rather than the two thousands. People were actually considerate and nice to each other and kids didn't use swear words to punctuate every sentence. I came back to myself and remembered that Benny said to meet at the back of the drugstore. I walked back there and saw Ham, Squints, Bertram, DeNunez, Yeah-Yeah and the Timmons twins.

"So I say to the girl, 'You wanna watch me play baseball?'" said Ham, obviously trying to entertain his friends. He stood there on a crate, his arms spread out, his mouth going a mile a minute. "And she said, 'Oh, Ham, could I?'"

"Man, Ham, do you always pick the sweet ones?" asked Squints. "Wendy's feisty!"

"Hardy har har, Squints," snapped Ham. "You've never been five inches near Wendy Peffercorn since the pool two years ago! Get over yourself!"

I laughed a little at this and this made them all turn around and stare at me. "What?" I said, putting my hands on my hips. "You've never seen a girl in pants before?"

Ham rolled his eyes. "Go back home, Janie."

"It's Jamie," I said.

"Whatever. Just go home." Ham hopped off the crate and came up to me. "What're you doing here anyway? Come to flirt or something?"

I shook my head. "No way, man. I'm here to play some baseball." I showed him my glove and grinned at the expression on his face.

"Girls can't play baseball," he said, his eyes narrowing, which made his freckles stand out a lot more. "It's the law."

"So if I throw a baseball, the cops'll come?" I asked, playing dumb for a split second. "C'mon, Ham, do you really think I'm that dumb? I can play baseball whether you like it or not."

"Well, I say you can't." He folded his arms and took a step back.

"I say I can because I _know_ I can."

"Oooh," said the rest of the group, who came up behind Ham. Yeah-Yeah had his arms folded; Bertram spit at the crates stacked up against the wall; the Timmons brothers stood side-by-side; Squints took off his glasses and rubbed them hurriedly on his shirt.

Ham scowled and folded his arms, sneering at me.

"What's going on?" The voice made me turn around and I saw Benny and Smalls -- they had obviously walked over here together. "Ham, why d'you look so mad?"

I scowled and wanted to hit Ham with my glove. "'Cause he thinks that just 'cause I'm a girl that I can't play baseball." I glared at Ham over my shoulder. "Isn't that right, Hamilton?"

"Nobody calls me Hamilton," said Ham angrily.

"I just did," I said.

"Guys, cut it out," said Benny. He came over and faced Ham. "Okay, so yeah, she's a girl. There's nothing we can do about it."

"She says she can play ball," said Ham in protest. "Girls just _can't_."

"Tell you what," I said, coming in front of Benny and getting Ham full in the face. "I'll make a bet with you. I'm going to play baseball with you guys for one full day. If you think I can't play, then I'll just leave you guys alone. If I can, I get to play. Agreed?" I didn't know how I thought up something that fast, but it must be a short-term effect or something from the time traveling.

Ham took a breath and glanced at all of his friends. Yeah-Yeah was shrugging, the Timmons twins were nodding, and Squints was just flat out shaking his head.

"Don't agree man," said Squints, pushing his glasses up his nose and well, squinting at me. All these kids seemed to have a lot of freckles…except Smalls and Benny. Weird much? "It's too risky."

"How is it risky?" asked DeNunez. "She's a girl, man, you could take her."

"Um, standing right here, you know," I said, waving my hand a little.

"Sorry."

Ham got this arrogant look on his face and he shrugged, smirking a little. "Why not?" he said, walking easily away from our group for a minute, and then turning and facing us with that same smirk on his face. "I'm always in the mood for a good bet."

"Is that a yes or a no, Hamilton?" I said, using his full name again. He obviously hated it when I did that, because his arrogance was wiped away by a frown.

"That's a yes, Maxwell," he said, using my last name. "Are we going or what?"

We all screamed "Yeah!" (well, with Yeah-Yeah it was more like two yeah's) and then ran to the sandlot.

**At The Sandlot**

Ham put on his catcher's equipment and walked behind home plate, lifting up his mask and shouting for the entire world to hear: "_Play ball!"_ For a kid like him, he had a high-pitched, scream-y voice when he shouted.

I was playing at short today, taking Yeah-Yeah's place. I bent down in the ready position, my glove ready, my muscles tensed for sprinting.

Benny moved easily towards the batter's box, a bat balanced in his hands. Slowly he dug in, preparing himself, and then swinging the bat smoothly up to a niche on his shoulder. His eyes were trained steadily on the ball in DeNunez's hand, and he bent at the knees and looked relaxed, ready.

DeNunez turned suddenly, his eyes on me. "Benny's gonna hit it to you," he said, "throw it to first." He pointed to first as if I had no idea where it was.

"Thanks," I said, nodding at him. I got ready, watched DeNunez go into his stretch, watched the ball fly towards Benny…and then watching Benny swing at the ball and send it hurtling towards me on a one-hop.

I reached down for it, falling to my knees and then chucking it to one of the Timmons, who caught it and looked a little surprised. I stood up, my muscles enjoying the work, and I grinned impishly at Ham. "I would take this time to say 'I told you so', but it's too early. Go ahead, gimme another one."

Ham scowled from beneath his catcher's mask and he got back into his rocking chair crouch, holding out his beat up glove as a target.

Benny hit me a pop fly and smirked as it flew through the air.

"Whoa, man," I said, shaking my head and getting under the pop fly easily. C'mon, I did this with my friends _every single day of the summer._ "That was a hard one." I threw it hard at Timmons Number One and heard it hit the glove with a satisfying _thwack._

"Yeah-yeah, Benny," called Yeah-Yeah from the dugout. "You're makin' this too easy for her!"

Benny scowled and relaxed into the batter's box again. He hit me a double hop on the grass, and I let it hop until it came up to my chest, and then I scooped it out of the air.

"That was really hard," I said, lazily flicking it into Timmons Number One's glove. "C'mon, just say it already. 'Jamie can play baseball.'"

"Nuh-uh," said Ham, yanking the mask off his face. "I'm not admitting that _yet._ You still have to bat."

"Okay," I said, shrugging. I tossed my glove to the side and went to the pile of bats on the ground, testing each one that seemed right for my height and weight. Then I went up to the batter's box and dug in, playfully winking at Ham, who just glowered up at me in return.

"Come on, DeNunez," said Ham from underneath his catcher's mask. "Put it right here, right here!"

DeNunez went into his stretch, and fired the ball right down the middle. Bad mistake.

"Oomph," I mumbled as I hit the ball soaring for the outfield. I loved down the middle pitches; they were so easy to hit. "There it goes," I said, shielding my eyes with my hand. "Better luck next time, gentlemen."

Smalls retrieved the ball from the brush near the gate and threw it in to Yeah-Yeah, who was back at his position. Yeah-Yeah threw it to DeNunez, and he got ready to throw another ball.

I relaxed into my batter's stance again and flicked my fingers on and off the handle -- it relieved stress. I watched DeNunez go into his stretch, watched the ball fly over his shoulder and come hurtling towards me -- a sinker. _Great._ I swung and missed. I hated sinkers with a passion, and I scowled when Ham smirked at me from beneath his mask. I dug back in, scraping the dirt with my All-Stars angrily. For some reason, I got really mad when it came to missing a pitch.

Can someone say perfectionist?

We went through this for fifteen more pitches. My arms felt strangely like Jell-O, and sweat was beading my hairline and trailing down my back. The sun was beating down hard on us, and the boys were starting to complain.

"C'mon, Ham, give it a rest," shouted Benny from the outfield. There was an evident frown on his face. "She looks tired. Stop, man." He started taking his glove off.

I looked at Ham. "Yeah, Hamilton," I said, feeling a tiny bit of satisfaction in the pit of my stomach when he grimaced at his name. "I'm tired and I'm thirsty. We've been doing this for, what, an hour? Not even _you_ can be in the box for twenty pitches in a row."

I mean, of course a pro can. But that's a pro. And I'm a kid. I can't stay in there for so long without a break.

He stood up and ripped off his mask. "You giving up?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Not a chance, tubby," I said, scowling. "Just give me a ten minute break to at least get something to drink."

He jabbed his glove into my stomach, though not roughly. "Ten minutes."

I tossed the bat to the side, careful not to hit Ham (although secretly I wished I did hit him) and jogged to the dugout. Salvation! I saw a cooler perched on the edge of the bench and I popped the top, taking out a bottle of Coca-Cola. It was in the vintage glass bottles, the kind you could only get during Christmas back where I'm from. I twisted open the top and guzzled at least half of it before the others made it to the dugout.

"Jamie, pass me one?" Yeah-Yeah stretched his hand out to me, and I gave him a bottle.

Everyone got a Coke and sat around in the shade, drinking and talking. I found out that they were all in the same grade, except for Smalls and Timmons Number Two. They were going into seventh grade, meanwhile the rest of us were going into eighth. They talked about girls and baseball, baseball and girls, and baseball and Benny. Which I found funny, because who talked about their friends?

"Benny "The Jet" Rodriguez?" I said, after they told me about his nickname. I shifted a little on the bench -- sitting on hard wood too long made my tailbone ache. I took another sip of Coke, as well, swilling it around in my mouth before swallowing.

"Yeah-yeah," said Yeah-Yeah. "He's like, the most famous guy this side of the Valley!" A bit of pride shone in his eyes.

Benny shook his head. "No way, man. I just outran --"

"It was the _Beast,_" said Squints, his glasses sliding down his nose as he sat forward. Excitement edged his voice and he said, "The biggest, meanest, evilest thing that ever lived!"

"I thought we settled this," piped up Smalls. He hiccupped a little -- the soda must've reacted with his stomach. "The Beast wasn't the evilest thing that ever lived. He's actually really nice."

"Wait," I said, interrupting any other conversation that was going to follow Smalls' comment. "Who -- or what -- is the Beast?" I had a bad feeling about this. The bottom of my stomach constricted a bit when Squints leaned forward, his eyes glinting mischievously from behind his glasses.

"The Beast was, like I said, the evilest, nastiest, meanest, biggest dog you could ever lay eyes on," he said. He smiled, showing his big front teeth. "He lived behind that fence --" he pointed to the green, metal fence that bordered the outfield "--And he ate anything and everything."

"Aw, Squints, don't scare her," said DeNunez.

"He ain't scaring me!" I said, folding my arms and glaring at DeNunez. "My friend Joey could tell _way_ scarier stories than something about a big _dog._"

"Who's Joey?" said Ham. He smirked. "Your boyfriend?"

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Benny shift uncomfortably on the other bench. I also saw Yeah-Yeah smack him with his glove because he was moving around so much. Trying hard not to smile, I said, "No. He's my friend."

"Besides," said Squints with a shrug. "He ain't there no more. Old man Myrtle's on a vacation. He took the dog with him." He picked up his bottle, stood up, and stretched. "Who's ready to play some more baseball?"

We scattered around the field, Benny heading for the batter's box. I headed to the outfield, in left field. I opened and closed my glove a few times, making sure that it was still supple and easy to open.

"Jamie!" shouted Benny. "Throw to second!"

His voice was followed by the crack of his bat, and the ball soared towards me. Well. Behind me. I started running, keeping an eye on the flying piece of white leather. I reached up with my glove, not seeing the sparse bush right in front of my face. I caught the ball, and then tripped over the bush, landing on my back with a face full of dust.

I raised my gloved hand, showing Benny I had the ball. I stood up, coughing a little from the dust, and brushed myself off. My jeans were properly stained, now, and my back felt sore. I gripped the ball and chucked it to Bertram, who was patiently waiting for me to throw it in.

"Way to go, Jamie!" shouted Smalls as I jogged back to my position. After his shout of praise, the rest of the team followed en suite. "Yeah, Jamie!" and "Atta girl!" followed, though the latter was called rather awkwardly.

I grinned. I definitely had a full summer ahead of me.


	4. Garber's and a New Friendship

Disclaimer: I do not own The Sandlot or any other of the subsequent movies.

Summary: The gang heads to Garber's, the local malt shop, and bumps into -- you've guessed who -- George Phillips.

A/N: Thanks to the reviewers! It's appreciated!

"Only your real friends will tell you when your face is dirty." --Sicilian Proverb

**July 3rd, 1964**

"The great Hambino is at the plate." Ham spit into the dirt next to the plate and dug in, purposely getting dirt flying all over the place. He turned his head slightly towards me and smirked, laughing at my discomfort. I was catching today, and he was trying very hard to make my job more difficult than it already was.

"C'mon, Ham!" shouted Squints. He shoved his glasses back up his nose and scowled at his friend. "My clothes are going out of style!"

"They already are, Squints!" chorused the rest of the team.

I shook my head, smiling beneath the protective gear. I put down a sign -- the good ol' number one -- and held out my glove to DeNunez. "Easy out, Kenny!" I shouted, glancing for a split second at Ham's face. He looked annoyed. Good.

DeNunez went into his stretch, and then fired into my glove. Ham swung and missed, nearly swinging himself all the way around.

"Whoa, nice hit, Hambino," I said, casually flicking the ball back to DeNunez. "That went, like, all the way to the fence."

"Shut up, Jamie." He dug in again, but this time didn't bother to make the dust fly around. He was too angry to sabotage me. But he wasn't angry enough to stop himself from pointing at the left field fence, a smug little smile replacing the red face he had on before.

We didn't take him seriously. We all burst out laughing, even Benny, and disregarded the fact that he obviously wasn't kidding.

DeNunez went into his windup. His forehead glistened slightly with sweat. His cap was on backwards, and I noticed him squinting from the sun. His shirt was sticking to his back from the sweat, and you could tell he was sweating profusely. Then everything went out of slow motion and the ball came zooming towards both me and Ham.

Ham grunted and then swung, the ball smacking directly into the sweet spot of the bat. He finished his swing, watching the ball fly towards exactly where he pointed. With another smug smile, he tossed the bat to the side and started running.

More like lumbering.

"Aw, Ham!" I heard Smalls say. "Thanks a lot." He started clambering over the fence to get the ball. There was no need to worry about the Beast, or whatever it was called. Squints had told me that the dog went wherever Mr. Myrtle went, and since they were both on vacation, it didn't matter whether or not we hopped the fence to get some balls.

I scowled and tossed my helmet to the side. The sun was hotter than ever today. It was getting close to something almost painful. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and oh-so-subtly sniffed my armpits for stink. There wasn't any, so I stood protectively over home plate when Ham finally decided to come lumbering down the baseline.

"Took you long enough," I stated flatly, grabbing my helmet and yanking it back on. "C'mon, it's Benny's turn. Hey, Benny!" I waved him in with my glove. "It's your turn!"

He came jogging in, tossing his glove to the side. He grabbed a bat, gently shoved Ham out of the way (he was _still_ at the plate) and then took his stance. "You comfortable back there?" he asked. He tapped his sneakers with the tip of the bat, looking down at me.

"Yeah," I said. "Why wouldn't I be?" I held out my glove for DeNunez and shouted, "Easy out, easy out!" I wanted to get Benny rattled. See what he could do under pressure.

The ball came towards us. Benny didn't even move a muscle. He kind of glided when he swung, whacking the ball towards shortstop on a deathly one-hop. He recovered, glanced back at me with a sort of grin/smirk thing, and then faced DeNunez again.

"C'mon, Kenny! Strike him out!" I put my hand down behind my ankle and waited.

They probably didn't even need me behind the plate. Benny hit ball after ball, sending them each soaring towards the outfield or somewhere in the infield. He was a great hitter, and he didn't even show the almost natural overconfidence that came with being a great hitter. He missed once, and that was just about it. He missed on a low and outside curve, which made him scowl for a second, scrape the dirt, and then set back up again. He didn't even say anything to me. He just turned right back around and did what he did best.

It was getting close to three o'clock, and we were taking a break. We were all covered in dirt, sweat and grass stains; but that was all part of the game.

"Great hitting back there." I yanked off the helmet and put it underneath my arm. I took off my glove and tossed it to the ground. I made sure it landed on the grass, so the glove didn't get dry and dusty.

Benny just looked at me like a best friend would; fondly. He nodded, and a small smile lit up his face. "Great hitting yesterday, too. I mean, for you, not for me." He blushed, maybe because he thought I was thinking he was overconfident and liked to talk about himself.

I didn't think that. Not at all.

"I knew what you meant," I said. I started walking towards the lean-to and beckoned for him to follow. I wanted to keep talking. "You're the best hitter on the team though." I cast a glance towards the lean-to, where Ham was making the team laugh. "No matter what Ham thinks."

I got him to chuckle. "You're alright," he said, as if it were an honor. "For a girl, I mean."

I raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" I knew he was just joking, but I wanted to go along with the joke. Maybe make him just a little bit uncomfortable. I wanted to see how he handled it.

"No, I didn't mean it like _that._" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I was wondering…Do you wanna go to Garber's with me and the guys?"

"Garber's?" I repeated. Sounded like a diner or something. A place with a jukebox.

"Yeah. Garber's is a malt shop on Main Street. You wanna come?"

I considered. I had nothing better to do at all today other than play baseball and hang out. Mom wouldn't expect me home anytime soon, and it looked like we were done playing at the sandlot today. Garber's was on Main Street, too, and Main Street is the safest place in the neighborhood.

I can't believe I just said that, and it's 1964. _Everybody's_ safe, _everywhere._

"Yeah, sure!" I thought I sounded enthusiastic enough. I happen to have a problem with being sarcastic and enthusiastic. I think it's a defect.

"Cool. C'mon, let's go see what those blockheads are doing." He led the way to the dugout (or lean-to,) his shirt billowing behind him. He played with his LA Dodgers cap, taking it off and putting it back on.

Timmons Number One tossed both me and him a Coke, and we sat down next to each other. The space where we sat down was really small, because none of them had decided to move over to make room. I was practically on top of Benny, and we were blushing and muttering "sorry" to one another. I shoved Squints out of the way and plopped down next to him, praying that my blush didn't show through the dirt on my cheeks.

"Hey, Jamie," teased Ham, "your face is all red!"

"You think?" I glared at him and fought back the urge to smack him.

"Ham, relax, alright?" snapped Benny. He was obviously annoyed from the whole 'on top of each other' thing. "Are we going to Garber's or what?"

"Yeah-yeah," said Yeah-Yeah, blowing a bubble with his gum. "Why wouldn't we be going?"

Benny rolled his eyes and got up, taking his Coke with him. He led the way to the gate, followed faithfully by the posse.

I shoved my unfinished Coke into the cooler and hurried after them, glancing back at the dugout. It looked lonely without the bunch of us shoved into it, but Garber's seemed like an excellent opportunity to cool off.

We got to Garber's in record time. Outside the malt shop was a bike rack, and when the guys saw the bike rack, they started freaking out.

"Why are _they_ here, Benny?" Ham looked more mad than ever before. He stopped in front of the rack and glared at the fancy bikes, his green eyes smoldering. "Phillips better not do anything stupid today. I'm annoyed right now."

"We can all see that, Hammy," I said, clapping him on the shoulder and heading inside behind Benny.

Inside the malt shop it was slightly crowded. Kids and some adults sat in booths and at the counter, sipping malts and milkshakes and soda floats. The jukebox, as I predicted, was blasting a Beatles song, and some people were dancing in the corner.

In a booth down a little bit, a group of boys stood up. They were dressed in red and blue baseball uniforms. The uniforms were so clean that I doubted that they even played a game today. They started coming down towards us, scowls on their faces.

"What're you doing here, Rodriguez?" The one in a letterman's jacket chuckled and narrowed his eyes at us, especially Benny. "Tired of playing with a bunch of misfits?"

"Shut up, Phillips," snarled Benny.

"Yeah?" Phillips surveyed the group, his expression not changing…until he saw me. "Oh, Rodriguez," he said, shaking his head, "you've lowered your standards way to far. Playing with a _girl_? You've got to be kidding me! Girls can't play baseball!"

"Oh yeah?" I said, folding my arms. "Nice tights. Did your mommy pick them out for you?"

"You watch yourself, girly," he said threateningly.

"Uh-huh, I'm _so_ scared of a guy in tights." I folded my arms and raised an eyebrow at him. "I could totally take you on."

"In what?" A mischievous glint sparkled in his eye. "In kissing?" He puckered his lips at me.

"Ew, no way, perv." I leaned against the bar (not an alcoholic one, mind you,) and stared him down.

Phillips was okay-looking. He wasn't extremely handsome, like Joe Jonas or whatever. He was more like, Nick Lachey good-looking; halfway between extreme hotness and just 'oh, he's got a nice face/bod/legs.' He probably thought he was the hottest human being on the face of the planet (like every boy does) and that every single girl on the face of the planet would like to go out with him.

Yeah. Not every girl.

"What're you doing hanging around with these squares?" Phillips leaned against the bar in the same way I was, with one eyebrow arched. "We play on a _real_ baseball field."

"Okay," I said, getting off the bar and folding my arms defiantly. "First you insult me and Benny, who just happens to be my friend and insulting a friend of mine is _not_ a step in the right direction. Now you're _flirting _with me? Get lost, loser."

My guys burst into cheers, and I felt a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I knew it was Benny, and I grinned back at him. It felt good to win a fight against a boy.

And I knew, that from then on, Benny would be my best friend. I had his back and he had mine. We were connected.

We chased those guys out of the malt shop. They rode away on their fancy bikes, looking back at us and scowling. I ordered everyone milkshakes and passed them around, and we all sat in booths.

"Nice going, Jamie," said Ham appreciatively. "You did okay. For a girl." He peeled half the straw wrapper off his straw and aimed it at Smalls. He blew into the straw, and the wrapper shot in Smalls' eye.

"Ow!" shouted Smalls, smacking a hand to his eye. "You've blinded me!"

"You're _killing_ me, Smalls!" yelled Ham incredulously. When Ham yelled, his freckles stood out more because his face flushed. "You can't take a straw wrapper?"

I was sitting next to Benny, smushed up against the wall because there were three of us in one seat. It was me, near the wall, Benny in the middle, and Smalls all the way at the end. I leaned against my elbows and surveyed this whole thing while sipping my excellent black and white milkshake. There's nothing like a genuine '60s malt.

Across from us was Yeah-Yeah, Squints, and Ham. Ham was leaning almost across the entire table, talking quickly to us about how Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra and Sandy Koufax could be their own team and not need any other players.

"Koufax is the best pitcher ever!" he was saying, waving his arms around.

"What about Roger Clemens?" I asked.

Ham paused. "_Who?_" he said, apparently not believing me.

I wanted to smack myself. _You're in the sixties, dummy. There is no Roger Clemens yet!_ "Oh, nothing. Um, it was just some guy I knew back home," I covered quickly. "He was an incredible pitcher. Fourteen strikeouts in one game."

Ham rolled his eyes and continued on his tirade.

It was starting to get dark and we all had to start heading home. We paid for the milkshakes and headed home, walking back towards the residential area of the Valley.

"You coming tomorrow?" Benny asked me. He walked easily, with his hands in his pockets. He walked loose-hipped, relaxed. Brown eyes flicked towards me, waiting for my answer.

"Of course!" I said, falling into step with him, letting the others go ahead. "Why wouldn't I? Baseball's the best game in the entire world. Who would miss it?"

He grinned and looked away.

"Are you coming tomorrow?" I asked him. I knew the answer already, but I couldn't think of anything to say in reply to that question.

"Of course!" he said, imitating me.

"Ha," I said. I shoved my hands into my pockets like him, relaxing my stride.

"Hey, see you guys tomorrow!" The Timmons Boys waved and headed into their house.

"Bye, guys!" I yelled. I pulled my cap further down on my head.

Suddenly, it was yanked off, and I watched Benny run down the street with it. "Hey!" I shouted, running after him.

He was fast, I'll admit. He was really, really, really fast. No wonder they called him "The Jet." I wasn't faster than him, but I tried my best to get my hat back. "Come back here!" I yelled, my lungs burning and my heart thudding in my chest.

We raced down the block, him a few strides ahead of me. We were nearing my house, and finally he was slowing down. I pumped my arms harder and leaped, like I was stretching my foot at the last second to touch first base. I snatched my hat from his hand and tumbled to the ground.

"You okay?" he said breathlessly, coming to a stop and looking down at me. He stuck out his hand and helped me up.

"Thanks for the workout, Rodriguez," I said, winking at him. "I'll see you tomorrow." I started up the walk to my house.

"Yeah, see you!" He said, and started jogging back the way he had come.

What I realized right there was the fact that he basically "walked" me home, even though we'd passed his house before. He didn't let me walk home alone.

_What a gentleman_, I thought to myself. "Mom, Dad, I'm home!" I shouted.

_No_, I corrected myself, _what a friend_.


End file.
